In the light of the world's attitude toward woman
and her duties, the nature of Carrie's mental state deserves consideration.
Actions such as hers are measured by an arbitrary scale. Society
possesses a conventional standard whereby it judges all things. All men
should be good, all women virtuous. Wherefore, villain, hast thou
failed? For all the liberal analysis of Spencer and our
modern naturalistic philosophers, we have but an infantile perception of
morals. There is more in the subject than mere conformity to a law
of evolution. It is yet deeper than conformity to things of earth
alone. It is more involved than we, as yet, perceive. Answer, first,
why the heart thrills; explain wherefore some plaintive note goes wandering
about the world, undying; make clear the rose's subtle alchemy evolving
its ruddy lamp in light and rain. In the essence of these facts lie
the first principles of morals. "Oh," thought Drouet, "how delicious is my conquest." "Ah," thought Carrie, with mournful misgivings,
"what is it I have lost?" Before this world-old proposition we stand, serious,
interested, confused; endeavouring to evolve the true theory of morals--the
true answer to what is right. In the view of a certain stratum of society, Carrie
was comfortably established--in the eyes of the starveling, beaten by every
wind and gusty sheet of rain, she was safe in a halcyon harbour.
Drouet had taken three rooms, furnished, in Ogden Place, facing Union Park,
on the West Side. That was a little, green-carpeted breathing spot,
than which, to-day, there is nothing more beautiful in Chicago. It
afforded a vista pleasant to contemplate. The best room looked out
upon the lawn of the park, now sear and brown, where a little lake lay
sheltered. Over the bare limbs of the trees, which now swayed in the wintry
wind, rose the steeple of the Union Park Congregational Church, and far
off the towers of several others. The rooms were comfortably enough furnished.
There was a good Brussels carpet on the floor, rich in dull red and lemon
shades, and representing large jardinieres filled with gorgeous, impossible
flowers. There was a large pier-glass mirror between the two windows.
A large, soft, green, plush-covered couch occupied one corner, and several
rocking-chairs were set about. Some pictures, several rugs, a few small
pieces of bric-a-brac, and the tale of contents is told. In the bedroom, off the front room, was Carrie's
trunk, bought by Drouet, and in the wardrobe built into the wall quite
an array of clothing--more than she had ever possessed before, and of very
becoming designs. There was a third room for possible use as a kitchen,
where Drouet had Carrie establish a little portable gas stove for the preparation
of small lunches, oysters, Welsh rarebits, and the like, of which he was
exceedingly fond; and, lastly, a bath. The whole place was cosey,
in that it was lighted by gas and heated by furnace registers, possessing
also a small grate, set with an asbestos back, a method of cheerful warming
which was then first coming into use. By her industry and natural
love of order, which now developed, the place maintained an air pleasing
in the extreme. Here, then, was Carrie, established in a pleasant
fashion, free of certain difficulties which most ominously confronted her,
laden with many new ones which were of a mental order, and altogether so
turned about in all of her earthly relationships that she might well have
been a new and different individual. She looked into her glass and saw
a prettier Carrie than she had seen before; she looked into her mind, a
mirror prepared of her own and the world's opinions, and saw a worse.
Between these two images she wavered, hesitating which to believe. "My, but you're a little beauty," Drouet was wont
to exclaim to her. She would look at him with large, pleased eyes. "You know it, don't you?" he would continue. "Oh, I don't know," she would reply, feeling delight
in the fact that one should think so, hesitating to believe, though she
really did, that she was vain enough to think so much of herself. Her conscience, however, was not a Drouet, interested
to praise. There she heard a different voice, with which she argued, pleaded,
excused. It was no just and sapient counsellor, in its last analysis.
It was only an average little conscience, a thing which represented the
world, her past environment, habit, convention, in a confused way.
With it, the voice of the people was truly the voice of God. "Oh, thou failure!" said the voice. "Why?" she questioned. "Look at those about," came the whispered answer.
"Look at those who are good. How would they scorn to do what you
have done. Look at the good girls; how will they draw away from such as
you when they know you have been weak. You had not tried before you
failed." It was when Carrie was alone, looking out across
the park, that she would be listening to this. It would come infrequently--when
something else did not interfere, when the pleasant side was not too apparent,
when Drouet was not there. It was somewhat clear in utterance at
first, but never wholly convincing. There was always an answer, always
the December days threatened. She was alone; she was desireful; she
was fearful of the whistling wind. The voice of want made answer for her. Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city
takes on that sombre garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours
during the long winter. Its endless buildings look grey, its sky
and its streets assume a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless trees and
wind-blown dust and paper but add to the general solemnity of colour.
There seems to be something in the chill breezes which scurry through the
long, narrow thoroughfares productive of rueful thoughts. Not poets
alone, nor artists, nor that superior order of mind which arrogates to
itself all refinement, feel this, but dogs and all men. These feel
as much as the poet, though they have not the same power of expression.
The sparrow upon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dray horse tugging
his weary load, feel the long, keen breaths of winter. It strikes to the
heart of all life, animate and inanimate. If it were not for the
artificial fires of merriment, the rush of profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling
amusements; if the various merchants failed to make the customary display
within and without their establishments; if our streets were not strung
with signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying purchasers, we would
quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of winter lays upon the heart;
how dispiriting are the days during which the sun withholds a portion of
our allowance of light and warmth. We are more dependent upon these
things than is often thought. We are insects produced by heat, and
pass without it. In the drag of such a grey day the secret voice
would reassert itself, feebly and more feebly. Such mental conflict was not always uppermost.
Carrie was not by any means a gloomy soul. More, she had not the
mind to get firm hold upon a definite truth. When she could not find
her way out of the labyrinth of ill-logic which thought upon the subject
created, she would turn away entirely. Drouet, all the time, was conducting himself in
a model way for one of his sort. He took her about a great deal,
spent money upon her, and when he travelled took her with him. There
were times when she would be alone for two or three days, while he made
the shorter circuits of his business, but, as a rule, she saw a great deal
of him. "Say, Carrie," he said one morning, shortly after
they had so established themselves, "I've invited my friend Hurstwood to
come out some day and spend the evening with us." "Who is he?" asked Carrie. doubtfully. "Oh, he's a nice man. He's manager of Fitzgerald
and Moy's." "What's that?" said Carrie. "The finest resort in town. It's a way-up,
swell place." Carrie puzzled a moment. She was wondering
what Drouet had told him, what her attitude would be. "That's all right," said Drouet, feeling her thought.
"He doesn't know anything. You're Mrs. Drouet now." There was something about this which struck Carrie
as slightly inconsiderate. She could see that Drouet did not have
the keenest sensibilities. "Why don't we get married?" she inquired, thinking
of the voluble promises he had made. "Well, we will," he said, "just as soon as I get
this little deal of mine closed up." He was referring to some property which he said
he had, and which required so much attention, adjustment, and what not,
that somehow or other it interfered with his free moral, personal actions. "Just as soon as I get back from my Denver trip
in January we'll do it." Carrie accepted this as basis for hope--it was
a sort of salve to her conscience, a pleasant way out. Under the
circumstances, things would be righted. Her actions would be justified.
She really was not enamoured of Drouet. She was more clever than
he. In a dim way, she was beginning to see where he lacked.
If it had not been for this, if she had not been able to measure and judge
him in a way, she would have been worse off than she was. She would have
adored him. She would have been utterly wretched in her fear of not
gaining his affection, of losing his interest, of being swept away and
left without an anchorage. As it was, she wavered a little, slightly
anxious, at first, to gain him completely, but later feeling at ease in
waiting. She was not exactly sure what she thought of him--what she
wanted to do. When Hurstwood called, she met a man who was more
clever than Drouet in a hundred ways. He paid that peculiar deference
to women which every member of the sex appreciates. He was not overawed,
he was not overbold. His great charm was attentiveness. Schooled
in winning those birds of fine feather among his own sex, the merchants
and professionals who visited his resort, he could use even greater tact
when endeavouring to prove agreeable to some one who charmed him.
In a pretty woman of any refinement of feeling whatsoever he found his
greatest incentive. He was mild, placid, assured, giving the impression
that he wished to be of service only--to do something which would make
the lady more pleased. Drouet had ability in this line himself when the
game was worth the candle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the
polish which Hurstwood possessed. He was too buoyant, too full of
ruddy life, too assured. He succeeded with many who were not quite
schooled in the art of love. He failed dismally where the woman was
slightly experienced and possessed innate refinement. In the case of Carrie
he found a woman who was all of the latter, but none of the former.
He was lucky in the fact that opportunity tumbled into his lap, as it were.
A few years later, with a little more experience, the slightest tide of
success, and he had not been able to approach Carrie at all. "You ought to have a piano here, Drouet," said
Hurstwood, smiling at Carrie, on the evening in question, "so that your
wife could play." Drouet had not thought of that. "So we ought," he observed readily. "Oh, I don't play," ventured Carrie. "It isn't very difficult," returned Hurstwood.
"You could do very well in a few weeks." He was in the best form for entertaining this
evening. His clothes were particularly new and rich in appearance.
The coat lapels stood out with that medium stiffness which excellent cloth
possesses. The vest was of a rich Scotch plaid, set with a double
row of round mother-of-pearl buttons. His cravat was a shiny combination
of silken threads, not loud, not inconspicuous. What he wore did not strike
the eye so forcibly as that which Drouet had on, but Carrie could see the
elegance of the material. Hurstwood's shoes were of soft, black calf, polished
only to a dull shine. Drouet wore patent leather but Carrie could
not help feeling that there was a distinction in favour of the soft leather,
where all else was so rich. She noticed these things almost unconsciously.
They were things which would naturally flow from the situation. She was
used to Drouet's appearance. "Suppose we have a little game of euchre?" suggested
Hurstwood, after a light round of conversation. He was rather dexterous
in avoiding everything that would suggest that he knew anything of Carrie's
past. He kept away from personalities altogether, and confined himself
to those things which did not concern individuals at all. By his
manner, he put Carrie at her ease, and by his deference and pleasantries
he amused her. He pretended to be seriously interested in all she
said. "I don't know how to play," said Carrie. "Charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty,"
he observed to Drouet most affably. "Between us, though," he went
on, "we can show you." By his tact he made Drouet feel that he admired
his choice. There was something in his manner that showed that he was pleased
to be there. Drouet felt really closer to him than ever before. It
gave him more respect for Carrie. Her appearance came into a new
light, under Hurstwood's appreciation. The situation livened considerably. "Now, let me see," said Hurstwood, looking over
Carrie's shoulder very deferentially. "What have you?" He studied
for a moment. "That's rather good," he said. "You're lucky. Now, I'll show you how to
trounce your husband. You take my advice." "Here," said Drouet, "if you two are going to
scheme together, I won't stand a ghost of a show. Hurstwood's a regular
sharp." "No, it's your wife. She brings me luck.
Why shouldn't she win?" Carrie looked gratefully at Hurstwood, and smiled
at Drouet. The former took the air of a mere friend. He was
simply there to enjoy himself. Anything that Carrie did was pleasing
to him, nothing more. "There," he said, holding back one of his own
good cards, and giving Carrie a chance to take a trick. "I count
that clever playing for a beginner." The latter laughed gleefully as she saw the hand
coming her way. It was as if she were invincible when Hurstwood helped
her. He did not look at her often. When he did,
it was with a mild light in his eye. Not a shade was there of anything
save geniality and kindness. He took back the shifty, clever gleam,
and replaced it with one of innocence. Carrie could not guess but
that it was pleasure with him in the immediate thing. She felt that
he considered she was doing a great deal. "It's unfair to let such playing go without earning
something," he said after a time, slipping his finger into the little coin
pocket of his coat. "Let's play for dimes." "All right," said Drouet, fishing for bills. Hurstwood was quicker. His fingers were
full of new ten-cent pieces. "Here we are," he said, supplying each
one with a little stack. "Oh, this is gambling," smiled Carrie. "It's
bad." "No," said Drouet, "only fun. If you never
play for more than that, you will go to Heaven." "Don't you moralise," said Hurstwood to Carrie
gently, "until you see what becomes of the money." Drouet smiled. "If your husband gets them, he'll tell you how
bad it is." Drouet laughed loud. There was such an ingratiating tone about Hurstwood's
voice, the insinuation was so perceptible that even Carrie got the humour
of it. "When do you leave?" said Hurstwood to Drouet. "On Wednesday," he replied. "It's rather hard to have your husband running
about like that, isn't it?" said Hurstwood, addressing Carrie. "She's going along with me this time," said Drouet. "You must both go with me to the theatre before
you go." "Certainly," said Drouet. "Eh, Carrie?" "I'd like it ever so much," she replied. Hurstwood did his best to see that Carrie won
the money. He rejoiced in her success, kept counting her winnings,
and finally gathered and put them in her extended hand. They spread
a little lunch, at which he served the wine, and afterwards he used fine
tact in going. "Now," he said, addressing first Carrie and then
Drouet with his eyes, "you must be ready at 7.30. I'll come and get
you." They went with him to the door and there was his
cab waiting, its red lamps gleaming cheerfully in the shadow. "Now," he observed to Drouet, with a tone of good-fellowship,
"when you leave your wife alone, you must let me show her around a little.
It will break up her loneliness." "Sure," said Drouet, quite pleased at the attention
shown. "You're so kind," observed Carrie. "Not at all," said Hurstwood, "I would want your
husband to do as much for me." He smiled and went lightly away. Carrie
was thoroughly impressed. She had never come in contact with such
grace. As for Drouet, he was equally pleased. "There's a nice man," he remarked to Carrie, as
they returned to their cosey chamber. "A good friend of mine, too." "He seems to be," said Carrie.